Standing on the Edge of Summer
by Susan Pogorzelski

I once overheard someone on TV say that if you slept with your socks on at night, you could outlive people who didn’t wear socks by five years.

It was hot out. The weatherman said it would be record-breaking, and I wondered briefly if you could croak of heatstroke in your own home. It felt like it. It felt like my bedroom was too small and the air was too stuffy, and I could feel the sweat plastering my pajamas against my legs while rain from the storm splattered against the window.

The rain had started while we were eating dinner, a steady downpour that we watched out the windows from our places at the kitchen table. I had groaned, knowing that now I couldn’t go play Capture the Flag with Connor and the other neighborhood kids, but Dad had only nodded to himself and said that the ground needed a good watering. I thought of Mr. Snavely’s prized flowers and how they had been withering in the heat and wondered if you could revive something with just a little bit of water.

“Don’t flowers need the sun?”

“Sun and water,” Dad had nodded.

“But what if it keeps raining? What if it rains for forty days and forty nights?”

“That’s stupid.”

“Shut up, Audrey!”

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up.”

“But Mom-”

“And Audrey, don’t call your sister stupid or you’re not going to Sarah’s pool party, understand?”

“You need both.” Dad had turned back to me. “Too much rain and the flowers will drown. But not enough…”

I had looked down at the bed of pasta on my plate and picked at the spaghetti strands with my fork, twirling them around and around, not saying a word, thinking instead of wrinkles and frailty and wondering what could revive that.

Dad had said that the rain would cool the air, but it didn’t feel like anything was cooling now. Now my feet were starting to itch, and I rubbed them against the mattress but refused to take my socks off. I wanted those extra years to count.

My door was open to let in the air; across the hall, I could see a dim light shining beneath Audrey’s door. She was probably reading in bed, I thought, and I wondered if she had a new book I could borrow.

Reading was supposed to be good for the mind. I heard that on TV, too, once. And puzzles were supposed to help with memory.

I hoped that I would remember to put puzzles on my birthday list.

I flipped my pillow over and pressed my cheek against the pillowcase, but soon the cool spot turned warm and I turned it over again. I wanted to open the window and breath deep the summer air and listen to the crickets as they lulled me to sleep, but the rain was still falling and I was wide awake. I groaned and kicked my legs in frustration before I climbed out of bed, my feet shuffling against the carpet as I wandered downstairs.

“What are you doing up?”

“It’s too hot in my room and I can’t sleep.”

I plopped on the couch beside my mom and leaned my head back. From the kitchen I could hear the thump of Marmalade’s tail and the steady hum of the fridge, and for a second I wondered if I could just stand there in front of it with the door wide open. I bet the blast of cold air would make everything better; I bet I could fall asleep then.

“Anna?”

“What?”

“Want to tell me why you’re wearing two pairs of socks?”

I stretched out my legs and glanced down at my feet. “I thought I’d double it.”

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say a word, and I waited for her to shake her head and sigh, but that didn’t come, either. I looked around, finally realizing that there was no TV on, no radio, no book in her hands. All I heard was the rain dripping from the gutters outside.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what, about Grandma?” My mom nodded and I tucked my knees to my chest and pulled my nightgown over them like a tent. “Can we bring Grandma a puzzle the next time we see her? No, really,” I insisted. “I heard somewhere it’s supposed to help you remember stuff.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Somewhere.”

“We’ll see.”

“Why not?”

“I said we’ll see.” Mom stood and headed for the kitchen. “Want a glass of milk?”

I nodded and peeled the socks from my feet, dropping them to the carpet beside me. I wriggled my toes and tucked them into the folds of the couch cushion. The air suddenly didn’t seem so hot now, like what Dad had said was turning true and everything was cooling. Like the rain was just rain and the thunder was just thunder and those five years maybe wouldn’t matter so much if you were suffocating anyway.

Marmalade’s nails tapped against the linoleum as he followed my mom back in from the kitchen. I pressed my lips against the cold glass and took a sip as Mom settled back and closed her eyes.

“Stop. Marmalade, stop,” I scolded in a whisper as he sniffed at my socks, then nudged my arm with his wet nose. I scratched under his chin, and he lifted his head, his eyes raised towards the ceiling. I wondered if he was seeing anything there, wondered if he was really listening for Audrey’s mumbling in her sleep or Dad’s nasally snores. I wondered if he missed us when we were all sleeping and he was downstairs alone.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you when you wouldn’t let me see Grandma.”

“Anna…” My mom sighed and shook her head. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to see her, Annie. I want you to have happy memories of her.”

“But I do have happy memories.” I played with the hem of my nightgown as I thought about what she had just said. “I remember whenever we stayed with her, we’d walk to the ice cream shop in town. And Audrey would get vanilla and I would get pistachio and Grandma would get a scoop of each.”

I looked up and saw my mom smile, a trace of amusement crossing her face. “Her favorite flavor is strawberry.”

“It is?” Mom nodded, and I paused. “Does Audrey know?”

“I don’t think so.”

My grin grew wider and I somehow felt satisfied. I didn’t want Audrey to know; I wanted it to stay between us, locked in this moment, this middle of the night. It was like having some secret knowledge that linked us — me and my mom and my grandma — and I wanted to keep it that way.

My mom scratched Marmalade’s head, her fingers passing over the same spot methodically. Her lips were drawn in a smile that didn’t seem happy and didn’t seem sad. It was just there. My smile faded, and I remembered how I barely recognized her this afternoon, remembered how she looked so different, though she was still my mom, and I wondered if that was how it was for her. To remember her mother as she was then and see her as she was now. I wondered if that was how it would be for me and Audrey, and suddenly I wanted Audrey to know, too. I wanted to run upstairs and wake her up and tell her that Grandma liked strawberry ice cream.

I felt my cheeks grow warm as the room became stuffy again, and I bit my lip and looked at Marmalade, now just a watery blur of white and tan, but I knew he was there as I smoothed his fur over and over and over again.

All of a sudden, I wanted to reach down and grab the socks that Marmalade was sitting on.

“Oh, Annie…”

All of a sudden, I wanted Mom and Dad and Audrey to put on their socks, too.